


Heatstroke

by Hiver_Noir



Category: The Hitcher (1986)
Genre: Angst, Canon Divergence, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Stockholm Syndrome, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-13
Updated: 2019-08-13
Packaged: 2020-08-13 01:01:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20165533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hiver_Noir/pseuds/Hiver_Noir
Summary: Jim tries to oppose Ryder and gets more than what he bargained for.





	Heatstroke

**Author's Note:**

> Proofread by [GoldenHavoc](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoldenHavoc/works?fandom_id=2818614). Much thanks for helping me deal with this mess.

And softer than shadow and quicker than flies

His arms are all around me and his tongue in my eyes

He's going to kill him this time. He _will_ definitely kill him. Jim drives as carefully as he can, his shaking hands clenched tightly around the steering wheel, but his attention keeps slipping away from the road. He side-eyes the person sitting in the passenger seat, catching a glimpse of his profile, sharp and cold, as if carved from marble with acute precision. The interior of the car smells of heated rubber, immersed in such hellish heat it almost feels like they are riding a frying cupboard on wheels. Jim's shirt is sweaty and sticks to his skin like a soaked patch to a wound merely starting to fester, but he feels a chill slowly crawling down his spine. He shouldn't have tried to contact the police, shouldn't even have thought about it. It is probably for the better he didn't get enough time to do anything after all. That stupid idea of his would have only led to more victims. With Ryder easily cutting all the cops down and turning his attention back to Jim afterwards – strung like an arrow and oh so undividedly ogling his primary prey. Well, primary for the moment at least – Jim remembers what happened to the guy that had picked Ryder up before him. Although he’s survived longer than Ryder’s former plaything, he is in no better position. He caught him red-handed with a phone in his grasp, and Jim isn't naive enough to think his captor is going to leave this misdeed unpunished.

The latter sits in the passenger seat with a deceptively indifferent expression, supporting his chin with the back of his hand. This image, peaceful as it’s ought to be, scares Jim more than any hint of fury could have. John Ryder — if that is his real name, of course — is an inventive man. If he is a man at all, that is. Sometimes, Jim can’t help but doubt even that.

\- Turn away. - The sudden raise of Ryder’s voice cuts through the silence like shards while keeping the same bored expression on his face.

There is no turn ahead.

\- But...

\- Turn left. Now.

Jim turns off the track and drives a few tens of meters through the desert till Ryder gestures him to stop and jams the engine down, removing the ignition keys. They get out of the car. The temperature proves just as unbearable as inside – hot streams of air rise off the ground and hit Jim right in the face. He staggers in the spot, feeling a wave of fear-induced nausea clutch at the base of his throat.

\- Come here. - Ryder beckons him to come closer, and Jim approaches after a moment of hesitation. The road is clearly visible from where they stand and the monotonous noise of passing cars repeats in his head like a ragged tape. If Ryder plans to kill him, this may be not the best place to do it.

\- Hands on the hood.

Jim obeys and puts his hands on the metal. Scorching from all the sunlight bestowed upon it, it feels like grinding his palms on liquid fire. He feels Ryder's penetrating gaze on his skin while he circles him like a shark approaching its prey. Finally, he stops and pushes against Jim's ankle with the tip of his boot, urging him to spread his legs a bit further. His oppressive presence lingers behind Jim as unspoken threat now, a silent promise of violence. The sun above his head burns away, forcing the whole world to melt before his eyes, the sun rays touching his skin nothing but scalding. Ryder's hands rest on his shoulders, compeling him to straighten up, and then, one of them slowly wanders down Jim’s jeans. Jim bites his lips when Ryder unbuckles the belt and pulls his pants off along with the underwear, exposing his lower body in one go. Jim shakes with the hot air touching his bared loins and tries to turn around, but Ryder’s hand on the scruff of his neck holds him in place.

\- Did I allow you to move?

Jim freezes both in obedience and fear. He's got a throat with suddenly too much sand in it and his eyes start to burn with tears. He doesn't know exactly what Ryder is up to, but somewhere in his heart he's vaguely aware of what’s to come. And he's absolutely certain that once the truth reveals itself, he won’t be happy about it.

Calloused fingers drag across his lips.

\- Spit.

\- I can't. - Jim almost whispers. To tell the truth, he really can't. His mouth is drier than the desert under his feet.

\- You can ease your situation or keep making it harder. - Ryder’s voice is a patient rasp, like a teacher explaining obvious facts to a negligent student. - Your choice.

Jim gathers his strength and tries to spit, but fails. First tears start running down his face.

It earns him a dissatisfied sigh behind his back.

\- You're truly useless.

Jim hears him spit. In the next moment, wet fingers find way to the the cleft in between his buttocks. He jumps on the spot and twitches, trying to get away, but Ryder maintains a firm grip on his waist.

Jim cries out when a wet finger pushes into his body, two phalanxes at once. 

Ryder pats his thigh in response. Whether this gesture is meant to soothe or tease him, Jim really can't tell. His hands start to tremble either way, collapsinfg under the weight of his body when another finger is added. The sight before his eyes is still a tearful blur as he lifts his head to look at the road roasted by the ruthless sun. The road is about a hundred metres away and he can see the cars driving along the highway in dusty clouds. He wonders if the drivers can see what happens here. Even if they did, none of them would stop to help him. There are only a hundred meters between him and the highway, but this length seems to him as insuperable as the distance to another galaxy, while he remains locked in this one. In this world, there are only him and John Ryder. The metal bakes his palms, white rays falling directly on his uncovered head as Ryder's fingers move inside him, scraping at his sensitive flesh with their short-cut nails. Jim already feels dizzy by the time the fingers go missing, and he screams again when they're replaced by something much bigger and hotter but his voice drops almost immediately as he realizes what’s to happen now.

\- Don't move. - He pleads, swallowing the tears mixed with gulps of hot air. Ryder waits but a few moments before he thrusts in to the hilt. Jim nearly falls on the hood, leaning on his elbows and hiding his face, red and heated by shame and humiliation, in between his forearms. Ryder's movements are strong and impossibly deep, overcoming any resistance Jim’s body may have had as easily as pulling the trigger. Jim grits his teeth and lets out a muffled moan, trying to focus on the feeling of cool, rough palms caressing his tense back and abdomen. Soon enough the pain that used to rip him apart morphs into a monotonous burn. This is going on for a very long time, he thinks vaguely, way too long to be true. Finally, when everything’s over and Ryder lets him go, Jim's legs buckle underneath him and he sinks to the ground, pressing his naked buttom into the hot sand. For a while he just sits there, coming to his senses. Ryder leans onto the hood and lights a cigarette. After taking a few puffs, he offers the cigarette to Jim, calmly looking down at him as if nothing had happened. Jim barely shakes his head. He suspects that the smell of cigarette smoke could make his stomach turn inside out, had there been even a drop of liquid in his body to spare. Ryder sits in a squat next to him and they just stare at each other for some time, while Jim sniffs his nose, smearing tears across his face. Ryder pulls out his ever-present white handkerchief and wipes Jim's face clean, doing it so thoughtfully as if finding particular pleasure in the act. He picks Jim up by his armpits like a ragdoll, and lifts him to sit on the hood to help him put his jeans back on. Jim blankly stares at Ryder’s big hands, pulling the pants over his legs. His own palms seem so very small and slender compared to Ryder's paws. Next to him, he feels incredibly tiny in general. How could he even expect to stop this monster?

Some time later Jim sits on the passenger seat, hugging his knees and resting his temple below the half-open car window. Ryder doesn't comment on it. Every inch of Jim's body seems aflame, both inside and out. He feels like a termite, drowning in a drop of molten plastic. Perhaps he is still in shock, or just trying to soothe himself, but maybe everything's not so bad, after all, Jim thinks; this is better than Ryder gouging his eyes out or cutting off his legs and leaving him to die like a road kill a couple of miles off the highway. But the air is still too hot for him to think clearly, his own breath seems scorching when it comes out his throat and sears his lips in the process. Jim's forehead is pressed against the window glass, but it doesn't bring any relief - his entire skin melts, dripping with bitter sweat. Something touches his shoulder, and he makes an effort to turn around. Ryder offers him a plastic bottle of water without sparing a single glance, and Jim accepts it and takes a few greedy sips. The water in the bottle is nearly boiling, and when he turns to give it back, he faces Ryder, who is staring at him intently. Jim didn't notice when he pulled over and stopped the car. Ryder stretches his hand out, and Jim winces, as he puts the broad back of his hand on his forehead. The expression of his captor remains indifferent, but Jim has already studied him well enough. Something in his eyes is changing.

\- You have a heatstroke.

And whoever's to blame for that, I wonder, muses Jim, but he swallows the words back into his sore throat not wanting to argue. He doesn't try to pull away when Ryder reaches further to stroke his tangled hair. He just wants to be left alone, let to crawl under some rock and die there. Anything better than staying in this unreasonable heat. Ryder starts the engine and drives on. Jim closes his eyes, trying to stop the carousel in his head. And seems to be dozing off for a while, because the next time he opens his eyes, the car resides in a parking lot and Ryder heads towards an oblong red-brick building, slamming the door shut behind him. A motel, concludes Jim. The image of a cheap, tiny room with an unmade bed and a worn towel on the bathroom handle suddenly appears to him as heavenly as an oasis only found in dreams. He is always too tired, sleeping in a car seat next to a serial killer does not provide him with the rest he needs. It’s all nothing to Ryder, though, Jim can't even tell if the man is sleeping at all. Sometimes, Jim would wake up in the middle of the night, trying to put his sore body into a more comfortable position, and he'd see Ryder sitting in his seat with eyes closed, motionless, like a blond gargoyle. But even in these moments, Jim has the bizarre feeling that Ryder is just pretending, checking him out, waiting for the opportunity to attack him soon as he does something stupid. Jim ponders that even if Ryder doesn't kill him, this lifestyle will fulfill this task sooner or later.

He thought Ryder went out to get cigarettes, and is amazed when the man comes back, spinning the keys with a tag on his finger. He opens the car door from Jim's side and looks at him skeptically, measuring his body from head to toe.

\- Can you walk?

Jim nods and gets out. The promise of a cool shower and clean sheets gives him strength even though he is afraid to see a double bed in their room. However, as soon as his feet touch the ground, the dizziness immediately returns, and the world revolves around him, like he is standing in the center of a giant bowling ball, heading for a pair of oversized skittles. Jim grabs the roof of the car in an attempt to stop the spinning, leaning onto it like a shipwrecked sailor clings to shivers of his broken boat.

\- Seems like you can't.

Ryder's voice echoes from somewhere above his head, and for a moment Jim is scared he will just abandon him here, leave him alone and helpless. He mutters:

\- No! I can, I know I can.

Jim makes another attempt to firmly stand on his feet, but at that moment he’s picked up by something. As if he weighed nothing, Ryder is pulling him off the ground and throwing him over his shoulder. Being carried like this, Jim has no choice but to embrace Ryder’s neck with his arm for balance.

Luckily for him, there are two beds in the room. The first thing he does when his head is clear enough to walk again is crawl into the shower. Taut jets of cool water spray in his face, and for a moment Jim feels like he might have died and gone to heaven truly. He sits underneath the shower for a long time, relieving the aching pain kept in the many bruises, abrasions and lacerations he has acquired recently while the water washes away the traffic dust and nauseating smell of blood and gasoline from his hair and cooling skin. After the shower, he tries to get his things in order and toils over the sink, rubbing off the sweat and blood stains from his shirt. When he comes out of the bathroom, wearing nothing but a thin towel and his boxers, Ryder sits in a chair in the middle of the room, flipping through a dilapidated magazine with a vacant expression on his features. Except for the beds, the chair is the only piece of furniture in the room, yet still Ryder somehow manages to tower over it all like a dethroned royalty. After giving him a cautious look, Jim concludes his misadventures for the day to be over and slips into bed. He falls asleep after barely touching the pillow with his head, long before he can fully enjoy the clean sheets he's been dreaming of. Thankfully, this time he doesn’t have nightmares.

He wakes up in the middle of the night because his feet are freezing. The window in the room is open, and the cold wind blows across the place unhindered, bulging out dusty curtains and playing with the pages of the magazine that’s now carelessly thrown over the back of the chair. Sometimes the walls lighten up with the headlights’ shine of cars passing by, and their bluish reflections rush across the ceiling like disturbed ghosts. But all of this has nothing to do with Jim; he feels safe, albeit for a short time. He tucks his legs up, pulling on the blanket and trying to lean closer into something big and warm behind his back...

Jim's eyes snap wide open. Suddenly, all his sleepiness has disappeared. His movements must have alerted Ryder, because now his arm encircles his waist, supporting his former intention by pulling Jim closer to himself, his face stuck somewhere in the back of Jim's neck. Jim barely dares to breathe, surpressing a shiver, but Ryder seems to be sound asleep.

Holding his breath, Jim nearly hears the even heartbeat hammering away in his back, as measured and accurate as a metronome. Ryder’s embrace is warm and soothing, yet despite the lack of threat Jim’s quickly overcome with the feeling of unease gathering in his bowels – it isn’t right, he can’t just lay there and wait to be devoured. He wants to get out of this bed and move to the other one, so he carefully rolls off the sheet, trying to get himself free.

\- Going somewhere?

Jim stills, his heart aflutter.

\- I wasn't going anywhere.

\- Don't lie to me, kid.

Ryder is holding him back with Jim wiggling unintentionally in front of his lean body. Ryder starts humming a tune while his hand dives under the blanket, his dry knuckles sliding over Jim's shoulder in strokes, covering his skin in goosebumps. The fingers go further, gently kneading the flesh, and Jim quietly asks himself, if he is looking for the most sensitive areas to stab him in later, drawing out his pain as well as Ryder’s own pleasure. Meanwhile, Ryder's palm has already gone down below, his fingertips lightly caressing the muscles of Jim's stomach that tense up involuntarily under his touch.

\- So soft, - he utters, his voice’s tinged by a shade of amusement, - soft and clean.

Jim shudders. Not because of the words, but the tone they’re carried in – gentle and almost affectionate. It’s been a while since someone talked to him like that and he can’t help but welcome the change. Maybe he should stay soft, remain obedient, play whatever games Ryder wants him to, so that he won’t cause him more pain than necessary.

Either way, Jim can’t stop Ryder in any sense of the word.

Ryder pauses, picking at the elastic band of Jim’s boxers as if in contemplation before he shoves his hand inside. Jim gasps, attempting to stop further invasion, but only ends up pressing himself closer against Ryder’s body. A wave of panic flares up in his mind quickly overturning with fear.

\- Calm down. I won't hurt you.

Jim's ears burn, he is ashamed for his apparent weakness, yet startled by the subtle tone of Ryder's voice, and mostly by the unbearable pleasure he feels when warm fingers carefully squeeze at his tender flesh. He mumbles a faint protest - it's wrong, it shouldn't be that way. If Rider had simply turned him over and pressed him into the matress, his weight close to suffocating him, Jim could have retained the role of a helpless victim, caught in the painful daydream of their relationship. Instead, Ryder treats him with the same care and accuracy he would handle a gun or his favorite knife. The idea rushes straight into his loins, bringing a sharp jolt of pleasure that Jim tries to smother before Ryder has the chance to realize the effect his actions have on him. It can't be right, he shouldn't be getting off on this, not this fast, and especially not with this kind of thoughts in mind. Apparently, Ryder feels his resistance, because he nudges at the nape of Jim's neck, whispering: 

\- It's alright. Just give in to me. 

Jim whines in response, clenching the pillow in his hands, as his breath turns harsher, and Ryder shifts their positions a little so that his weathered lips touch the tender spot on Jim's neck. It’s more than enough to have Jim spill into his big hand with a barely muted whimper.

Jim's whole body becomes boneless under the blanket as he sinks into Ryder’s embrace, sated while pondering sluggishly on what his life has become. He just came in John Ryder's hand. What a crazy thought. But it clearly isn't the right time to think more about it - he's too tired, too exhausted, and Ryder understands it all. He wrapped his arms around Jim’s body, firmly holding him in place.

\- Sleep, - he says. - We'll head west tomorrow. Not so hot out there.

Jim nods weakly. Ryder's warm breath tickles his neck, and he tilts his head, allowing the man to lean his chin against his shoulder. As Jim slips back into sleep, he barely hears a husky voice murmuring into his ear:

\- You’re mine, kid. Never forget that. 

If only Jim could have seen his face at the moment, he'd have probably become wary of the strange shine enflaming Ryder's icy blue eyes – as burning yet cold as the sun's glare on the blade of a knife. But Jim is already asleep, and therefore sees nothing.


End file.
